I think it rained on his parade (Street-sides, iron fences, we've got enough water in containers saved from tears-don't need the rain, it doesn't matter.) (I like the beginning a bit more than the end R-R)

And then he came down the line,
asked me if I believed, I told him the truth.
Told him no
(told him let go)
But then it was raining and all of the orange(--Yellow--) Red-green lights that had been
clear before
were blurred and unstable...

And he was gone (I'd blinked, my eyes were white),
moved down the line(I don't know maybe I guess)--
Soaked through and through, transparent--
wistful-sad, like he was
gone somewhere else but still
here (asking people empty questions? I believe)

I think it rained on his parade (Street-sides, iron fences, we've got enough water in containers saved
from tears--don't need the rain, it doesn't matter.)

Wondered if my dad would be sleeping on the couch tonight
(--If maybe I shouldn't scratch it, if maybe--)
Was the door still locked?
Rained on everyone's parade for eight days,
not seven.

(And my eyes still hurt
from the water dripping from
the angry clouds in the attic.
I guess it's hard
to hear bad things about
the people who live inside you--closer than heart
to heart could ever be...more like a part of you--)

(A departure, for an eternity, forever--
like breaking free of endospores before
the time comes to rip them open,
and conditions outside are welcoming. Leaving tendrils--We? or I? No one? He. She. Them?
No way to know--and a wound that's gaping and
open and jagged,
leaving a wound that closes so fast.)

Then the colors come rushing up, myriad, infinite,
come rushing up and swirling around me
(met me already--My name is Clo,
it's nice to meet
you,
never got to know your names,
but that's okay--Want it like that, know you do)

And all that needs to happen (It's crazy, this,
we're all crazy here) is for you--I and those
previously mentioned--to drink up
(what are
you waiting for?), inhale, exhale--
Drink up (we don't want you to) die.
(Don't want it....) passing you by...

It was early, we came twenty seconds too soon,
but--
It's just so...amazing here...

Writing in about empty tragedies to places that
murmur about them quietly (jump in),
not because they care (get in),
and you hear them whispering...cacophony,
crazy voices, overlapping...
(what are you waiting for?)